


Everyone Swarms, He Thinks

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Frank Whump, I wasn't feeling quite well when writing this., Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Other, Panic Attacks, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 07:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21012017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Frank has never been in such a successful band before. He thinks he needs to work harder.This is really short and really unorganized and is basically vent-fueled whump, so I'm sorry . In happy(?) news, this made me feel a little better somehow? Stay safe





	Everyone Swarms, He Thinks

Frank has always criticized himself for everything. He's reasoned that self-assessment helps improve the person. Frank needs to improve. He must. Perhaps the jumbled, organized, sharp, tangled mess of thought in his brain was enough for a while. He'd think of all the things he could do to improve and he does get satisfaction. Of course, he gets satisfaction, wouldn't it be unhealthy if he wasn't happy with his results at least? (He's always admired his flexible, methodical, calloused, dry, splitting, bleeding hands after hours of isolated practice).

He'd get delicious shivers from thinking about his self-made punishments. It felt nice to think about what he could do. Not anything big really. He loved his friends. That's why he limited his time with them if he was bad. It was a good consequence. Really. It was. Though soon it stopped giving him shivers and stopped giving him motivation to be good. He was just a recluse now. He had to find something different, so he did. How many times did he mess up during group practice? Too many really. He could find the amount represented on his arm probably. Not in tattoo-form. He couldn't find exactly what he had done to get a punishment, the punishments changed in sentence from time-to-time(It wasn't just senseless violence. It was always so clear during the act) It seemed almost right that he carves his failures into his skin. 

He's not being some typical broken soul, in his opinion. He couldn't fathom the idea of himself being clumped in that generalized group. He's competitive and he's not a pushover.

Andy, from a band he was friends with, had a nice white scar that stood out across his ankle. It was from a cable snap accident, Wentz showed him a shaky video of it happening. Frank wanted that on himself. (He already had five gashes that bled through leather, but Frank figured that they would heal normally. So Frank, after tripping and unplugging an amp during a show, had plans to have a real scar.)

That was a long time ago. Now, he was twitching and silently sobbing alone on Mikey's bed. Frank doesn't know why he's upset at all; he just is. He's staying over the night and Mikey fell asleep on Gerard's bedroom floor. He could hear Gerard move about, probably kicking any trash under couches-out of sight. Frank wants to be out-of-sight. He needs it. He's fine he personally confirms. Trust me, he whispers to himself. It was a loud whisper. The lights flicker on and a pasty, greasy, tired Gerard stands in the doorway.

"Frank? I thought you went home. Huh."

Frank doesn't know what to do. He's broken and he's in a frozen panic. He doesn't know why. He doesn't know if that's even the right description. Frank thinks he can feel tears on his face. He can't tell if he's crying.

And then Gerard is shushing him and climbing onto Mikey's bed. Frank thinks he looks concerned and then annoyed and then pitying and then he can't tell anymore and he doesn't fully know what's happening. He feels warm and softly surrounded. Gerard is gently, firmly grasping his shoulders and whispering "Hey"'s and " What's wrong?"'s. All Frank can do is shake and bury himself into Gerard's food-stained, grey t-shirt. 

And Frank feels warm but without gushing blood this time. He's surrounded by soft, nice phrases without cloudy meanings and foreign thoughts tainting the comfort. He feels safe and he's not holding a weapon. He's in the arms of someone who cares about him. He's still shaking, and he still feels presumably salty tears on his skin(are they his tears or someone else's?)

He thinks to himself, maybe he can just have rewards. And then he stops thinking so much and relaxes into a worried embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that if you are upset or in any way inconvenienced to the point of performing any form of self-destruction, and I hope that you get support without strings attached and more, healthy, and happy moments.


End file.
